


The Needle and the Damage Done

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Drinking, Drug Addiction, M/M, Modern AU: University (off-handedly mentioned), i'm sure i'll add more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 03:59:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was perhaps unsurprising that no one was really close enough to Grantaire to notice the change in him.</p><p>Except Enjolras.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Follow Me, Everything is Alright

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing, just like to borrow now and again. Title is a Neil Young song.
> 
> Basically, this started as a thought of what if Grantaire's drinking turned into something else, and then this happened. At least a two-parter, not sure if there'll be more.
> 
> First fic in this fandom, please be gentle!
> 
> All mistakes are solely my own.

Courfeyrac dialed the number he had dialed too many times in the past for this very reason. It rang twice before the other person picked up. “ _Courf?_ ”

“Enjolras.” Courfeyrac paused, not wanting to have to say what he had to say. “I have Grantaire. The café called me. He’s…he’s really messed up, Enj.”

There was a long pause from the other end, followed by a deep, world-weary sigh. “ _What this time?_ ”

It was telling that Courfeyrac understood instantly what the other was asking. How many times had they had this conversation already? “Hard to say. Definitely some coke. Maybe speed. Maybe…” He didn’t say it. He couldn’t.

“ _Heroin_.” Enjolras sounded like he was a thousand years old at least. “ _Was there heroin, Courf?_ ”

Courfeyrac swallowed hard. “I don’t know,” he said honestly, but then added, in an undertone he half-hoped the other wouldn’t hear, “But we found a needle, and there are fresh track marks.”

The pause that stretched after this statement was the longest yet, and Courfeyrac closed his eyes, desperately wishing someone else was having this conversation, that he was back in his apartment, studying and texting Jehan. Finally, Enjolras asked quietly, “ _You’re taking him to Joly’s, right?_ ”

"We’re on our way right now,” Courfeyrac confirmed quickly. “We’re in a cab. Are you going to meet us there?”

A short silence this time, then, “ _No. You know that seeing me will only make it worse when he’s coming down._ ” Courfeyrac wanted to argue with him, but it was true. “ _Just get him to Joly’s. Make sure to text me with updates. I’m sure it will be a few hours before he’s coherent_.”

“Probably.” Courfeyrac bit the inside of his cheek, not wanting to ask the next question, but feeling like he had to, in order to try and understand. “Enj – what happened? Did you two fight, or what?”

A deep sigh on the other end. “ _We fought_ ,” Enjolras confirmed. “ _The usual. Not so bad of one that I expected this, to be honest_.” For Enjolras and Grantaire, ‘the usual’ could be any combination of fights ranging from taking the garbage out to Grantaire not drinking as much or doping as much, so this didn’t help Courfeyrac much, but he didn’t press for any further details. A brief pause, then, in a quiet voice that did not seem to want to know the answer, “ _How is he, Courf?_ ”

Courfeyrac looked over at the occasionally twitching form beside him. “Not great, but he’ll be fine. He didn’t OD this time, thank God.”

“ _Thank God_ ,” murmured Enjolras, and Courfeyrac was struck by the fact that Enjolras did not even believe in God, and for some reason that thought was extremely funny to him, and he felt hysterical laughter bubbling up in his chest until Enjolras said, his voice rough, “ _Look, I’ve got to go, Courf. But you’ll keep me updated, right?_ ”

“Yeah, I’ll keep you updated,” said Courfeyrac. “It’ll probably be a few hours before I have anything to report.”

“ _That’s fine. Talk to you later_.” A quick pause, then, so softly Courfeyrac almost didn’t hear him, “ _Tell him I still love him, alright?_ ” Courfeyrac pinched the bridge of his nose. He really wished that someone else were dealing with this.

“I’ll tell him, Enj. I always do.” He waited to see if Enjolras would say anything else, and when he didn’t, Courfeyrac sighed and said, “I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up his phone and looked down at Grantaire, whose black hair was a tangled mess hanging in his face with what looked like vomit dried in it, who was maybe sleeping, maybe unconscious, definitely drugged out of his mind. Courfeyrac bit his lip. How had it come to this again?

* * *

 

No one was quite sure when Grantaire first traded up from booze to drugs. Well, maybe Enjolras, who was more observant than some gave him credit for, especially when it came to his group of friends. And what a motley group they were – mostly university students who hung out at either the local bar or the local café, the Café Musain (which, since it also served alcohol, was more or less a bar as well). They had an upstairs room in the café that they used every week for meetings of their activist club, which had no official name but was alternately referred to as Les Amis de l’ABC, the June Rebellion (Marius’s girlfriend Cosette had suggested that one evening out of the blue, and no one had bothered to ask where she had pulled that from, but then Jehan had written a sonnet about it – of course – so they used it sometimes), and – spouted one evening by a particularly vocal Grantaire – sometimes just French Revolution. Whenever they referred to themselves as such, Enjolras would typically just shake his head. The name didn’t matter so much to him, just the ideals that they were fighting for, which never seemed to simmer into full rebellion, instead taking place as protests, rallies, and the occasional sit-in. Enjolras, of course, was the soul of the group, planning most of the activities and finding most of the causes. His blond curls and beguiling blue eyes, coupled with more charm than five men put together, could cajole the group into doing just about anything.

Grantaire had always been an odd member of their group, never quite fitting in to the grand scheme of things, never actively participating in their meetings, though he would sometimes show up for a protest or half-heartedly pass out some flyers on the quad at school. But mostly he was a drunk who would sit in the corner with a bottle or two (or three, or four) of wine and make snarky comments, mostly under his breath but often enough to Enjolras’s face that the two had some very loud and angry arguments. And yet still he came back, week after week. Courfeyrac was friends with him, in part because Courfeyrac thought that his comments were hysterical 98% of the time, and partly because Courfeyrac never took anything too seriously. Combeferre, as Enjolras’s right hand, held nothing but barely concealed disdain for the man, even if Enjolras could never seem to muster much more than general indifference towards Grantaire. Eponine, who had really only started coming to these things for Marius and thus cared perhaps even less than Grantaire, typically joined him in the wine. Bossuet and Joly were friendly enough, and Jehan, especially when Jehan and Courfeyrac were hooking up as they did every so often. The others seemed mostly on good enough terms with him, but it’s perhaps unsurprising that no one was really close enough to him to notice the change.

Except Enjolras.

It didn’t help that the change was subtle. Again, no one knew much about what had happened, though in later conversations, Grantaire told Courfeyrac that it had started with pot and pills. Those didn’t do much to change him. Slightly more withdrawn, maybe, the sarcastic comments cut down to once in awhile. The biggest difference was that Grantaire was not drinking as much. In retrospect, of course, it was because he hadn’t needed to; the pills did the alcohol’s work much better than it ever could.

It was uppers next; speed when he could get it and cocaine in between. This was the most noticeable shift in the young man. Instead of sitting in his corner, he was up and around the room, laughing with people at this table, singing a drunken ballad with Jehan here, sniggering at dirty jokes with Courfeyrac and Bahorel there. Courfeyrac had jokingly asked him what he was on one of those days. Grantaire had just winked at him and said, “Life, man,” but Courfeyrac caught him later in the bathroom with little lines of white powder. Grantaire had laughed, almost a little nervously, and said, “Hey, even life needs a little help sometimes, right?” In all honesty, this was such an improvement to the Grantaire that they normally had to deal with that no one made much comment about the sudden turnaround in his personality.

Except Enjolras.

A small crease had formed in Enjolras’s perfectly smooth forehead whenever he looked at the raven-haired man those days, and a frown that was more concerned than disapproving would hover on his lips. He didn’t say anything at first; in fact, it took weeks before anything was said.

Grantaire showed up for a rally looking like a mess. This was hardly surprising, as Grantaire was not known for his grooming habits, but he looked worse than he normally did. He gave a sloppy salute to Enjolras. “Reporting for duty, my fair Apollo.”

Enjolras frowned at the nickname, then looked closer at Grantaire. “Jesus Christ, Grantaire, are you tweaking?” Grantaire looked as if he were going to deny it, then simply shrugged and smiled sweetly. “For Christ’s sake, your pupils are like saucers.” The disgust was plain in Enjolras’s voice.

“What?” snapped Grantaire. “So I like to have a little fun every now and again. Just because you don’t ever have fun. I mean, fuck, do you even know what fun is?”

“This—” Enjolras hissed, his face close to Grantaire’s. He bit off his words and rocked back on his heels, forehead even more creased than before. “This is not fun, ‘Taire. This is self-destruction. You’re going to hit bottom one of these days.”

Grantaire shrugged nonchalantly. “Haven’t hit it yet.” He looked at Enjolras, almost curious. “Didn’t realize you gave a shit, either.”

Enjolras frowned deeper. “Of course I care. You’re my friend, one of the group.”

“Of course,” snorted Grantaire. “One of the group.” He started to turn away, but Enjolras caught his arm.

“I mean it,” said Enjolras, his voice low and heated. “I do care. And I’m worried about you, ‘Taire. You have to start taking care of yourself.”

For a long moment, they stood there like that, Grantaire’s green eyes searching Enjolras’s blue, with Enjolras’s hand still resting on Grantaire’s arm. Then Grantaire looked down and let out a quick huff of laughter. “I’ll take that under advisement, fearless leader.” He shook his arm out of Enjolras’s grip and stalked across the quad toward a group of guys generally known as thugs and drug dealers. Enjolras could not help following him with his eyes, watching the brief conversation and Grantaire turning to leave, holding the hand of one of the guys – Montparnasse, Enjolras thought, but couldn’t be sure. Grantaire looked back at him, and their eyes met, ever so briefly. Then Grantaire was gone, gone with that guy, gone to do…God knew what. Enjolras looked down at the flyers in his hand and took a deep, steadying breath before turning back to the rally, ready to take charge.

Maybe it started with fucking Montparnasse, or maybe it started because something between Grantaire and Enjolras had broken that day, but at the next week’s meeting, Grantaire was back to huddling in a corner, bottle of wine in front of him. This time, though, he was noticeably different to everyone. He was wan and uncharacteristically silent, his clothes getting baggier and dirtier, the shadows under his eyes darker, and even Eponine was becoming concerned.

He showed up to one meeting with his shirt torn, his nose bleeding and a black eye already blooming on his face and didn’t say a word to anyone, just headed straight for the bathroom. Courfeyrac, after exchanging startled looks with Jehan, followed him. He hovered outside the bathroom for a long moment, hoping to hear the sink running as Grantaire cleaned up his face or something, but, hearing nothing, Courfeyrac pushed the door open. Grantaire sat on the toilet, shirtsleeve rolled up, belt buckled around his bicep, needle sticking out of his forearm. Grantaire rolled his head slowly toward Courfeyrac then half-smiled. “Courf.”

“Fuck, Grantaire,” said Courfeyrac. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Smack,” said Grantaire dreamily. “Feels…fucking…fantastic.”

Courfeyrac took a deep breath. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. He was about to say more, to maybe suggest that Grantaire go home or at least go outside or something when suddenly Grantaire’s body jerked uncontrollably, the needle flying from his arm and skittering across the floor. “Grantaire? What the fuck?” Courfeyrac practically shrieked as he raced over. Grantaire had slipped from the toilet and was now seizing on the floor. Courfeyrac shook him, yelling, “Grantaire! ‘Taire, wake up, ‘Taire, c’mon!” Grantaire’s lips were blue, and his eyes, rolling in their sockets, had pinprick pupils. “For fuck’s sake, ‘Taire, stay with me,” pleaded Courfeyrac, still shaking Grantaire’s shoulder, trying to elicit some kind of a reaction.

All of a sudden, a shadow fell over Courfeyrac, and he looked up to see, of all people, Enjolras standing there. “Enjolras, he…he just…” stammered Courfeyrac, but Enjolras ignored him. Instead, he bent down and picked up Grantaire, as gently as if he were carrying a child. Courfeyrac started to say something, but one look at Enjolras’s eyes stopped him. Enjolras’s eyes burned, burned with some emotion that Courfeyrac didn’t recognize or pretended not to recognize.

Enjolras carried Grantaire out of the bathroom, down the stairs of the café, most of the group trailing after them. Joly had run to the front of the group, issuing orders. “He has to go to the hospital, Enjolras. He’ll need fluids, oxygen. We can’t help him.”

“I’ll take him.”

Those were the only words Enjolras said before setting Grantaire ever so gently into the front seat of his car and tearing off for the hospital as if the devil himself were chasing them.

The hospital had been hard. Enjolras had carried Grantaire inside, looking for all the world like an angel come to Earth, and the ER nurses had taken one look at the belt still buckled around Grantaire’s arm, the track marks that covered his skin, and tsked while directing Enjolras to deposit Grantaire on a gurney. “I want to go with him,” said Enjolras firmly.

“It’s not hospital policy to let friends—” the nurse began, then stopped when she saw the look on Enjolras’s face. She looked sideways to see if anyone else was paying attention, then said in undertone, “You’re his _brother_ , right?”

Thus Enjolras had been by Grantaire’s side the entire time, as he was ventilated, as an IV was put in him – the nurse had trouble finding a vein, and mentioned off-handedly that she normally only saw this kind of thing in long-term drug users, and Enjolras had simply pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes – as a steady stream of nurses and doctors checking on him flitted in and out of the room. There were admittance and insurance papers to fill out, and Enjolras did both, listing himself as next of kin.

It was several hours before Grantaire stirred, and when he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the top of Enjolras’s head, as Enjolras was sleeping, head resting on his crossed arms on the side of Grantaire’s bed. He was so still and so like an angel that Grantaire thought for sure he had died and gone to heaven, if it wasn’t for the pain that stabbed every inch of him and the tubes that were currently gagging him. He tried to reach out to Enjolras, but couldn’t seem to remember how to make his arms move, tried to talk, but couldn’t around the tubes, and settled for a grunt that sounded more like a moan.

Enjolras jolted upright, eyes wide, a look bordering on panic splayed across his face. A half-second, then the look softened. “Hey,” he said, his voice cracked with sleep. He leaned in towards Grantaire. “Don’t try to talk, you’re still ventilated.” Twisting in his chair, he located the nurse call button and pushed it. Then he turned back around, looking deep into Grantaire’s eyes. He hesitated for a moment, then reached out slowly to gently touch Grantaire’s hand. “You had me worried, ‘Taire.” The nurse bustled in then, and Enjolras withdrew his hand so quickly that Grantaire, whose head was still reeling, could’ve sworn that he imagined it.

The next hour was filled with nurses and doctors telling him he’d have to stay overnight at least, pamphlets and leaflets pressed into his hands talking about heroin addiction, names and addresses of local Narcotics Anonymous groups. Through it all, Enjolras sat in the hard plastic chair next to Grantaire’s bed, eyes hooded, arms crossed in front of his chest. After what seemed like an eternity, especially to Grantaire, who was coming to the slow and unsatisfactory conclusion that when coming down from an OD on heroin, other opioids were apparently not administered to dull the pain, the final nurse made a note in his chart, and turned to Enjolras to say sternly, “Your brother needs rest, so make sure to let him sleep.”

Grantaire almost snorted with laughter. As if Enjolras had done anything for the past hour besides like an extremely attractive, if highly disapproving statue. After the nurse marched away, Grantaire looked at Enjolras and asked hoarsely, “Brother?”

“They wouldn’t let me stay with you otherwise.” Enjolras’s normally smooth voice sounded ragged, and when he met Grantaire’s eyes, Grantaire was shocked to see the amount of emotion swirling in them. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

If nothing else, Enjolras swearing was enough to tell Grantaire how very serious this was. Enjolras never swore. He seemed to consider resorting to such measures beneath him (and in fairness, had such perfect grasp of the English language that he hardly needed to, after all – plus, he had that ability to say everything he was thinking with just one swift glance). Grantaire could not help shrinking back into his pillow, wishing he could be anywhere but under the intense scrutiny with which Enjolras was now gazing at him. “I dunno,” he mumbled, looking away. “I think it was a hot shot. I wasn’t trying to OD.”

Enjolras let out a sound that sounded like half a sob. “I don’t just mean the OD, ‘Taire. I mean…heroin? When did that start happening? What were you thinking? You weren’t killing yourself quickly enough with the speed and coke and booze?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Grantaire muttered, purposefully not meeting Enjolras’s piercing gaze. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself. Not really.”

Enjolras leaned forward, trying to understand, wanting more than anything in the world to understand. “Then why? This path only leads one direction, ‘Taire, and it’s a direction I never thought you’d go.”

Huffing a long sigh, Grantaire rolled onto his back, fixing his eyes on the ceiling. “I dunno,” he said again, but something in his tone made Enjolras hold his tongue from pressing him further. After a long moment, Grantaire said, his voice soft and broken, “I’m a fuckup, Enjolras.” Enjolras made as if to interrupt, but Grantaire just shook his head, tears beginning to leak from the corners of his eyes. “No, I am. Don’t try to deny it, because it’s true. I’m a fuckup. And I thought…I don’t know what I thought. This…this one night at Musain, some guy offered me some pills, and I just took them. And they were like magic, so much easier than the booze, you know? And then…” He shifted slightly to cast a look at Enjolras, almost afraid of how to proceed. “You yelled at me one day.” Then he shook his head. “No, that’s not right. You never really yell at me, do you? But you said something about me just…taking up space. And then…”

“Then you tried to not just take up space?” Enjolras guessed, his voice the quietest it had been.

Grantaire closed his eyes. “Like I said, I’m a fuckup. I don’t know how to…to act normally without…something. And if the booze and the pills weren’t doing it…I had to try something else, right?” He seemed to be almost pleading, begging Enjolras to understand. “But it didn’t help. Not really. You still looked at me like I was…I don’t know.”

Now it was Enjolras’s turn to close his eyes. “Ok, I can get that…” he said slowly, then broke off. “I mean, no, I can’t get that, but…I almost understand.” He opened his eyes again. “But the heroin, ‘Taire. Why?”

“Because you still didn’t care. And if you didn’t care, then what was the fucking point?” Enjolras looked as if he had been hit with a ton of bricks, and Grantaire looked over at him, suddenly panicked. “No, I mean, I don’t mean—look, it wasn’t you, you know? You didn’t do this. I just…I wanted—and then it didn’t even matter, so…”

Enjolras leaned forward, reaching out to cover Grantaire’s trembling hand with his own, trying to stop the other man from babbling. “This seems to keep going back to whether or not I care. Why?”

Grantaire swallowed hard and looked pointedly away from where their hands were still touching. “You must know,” he choked out. “I’ve been the most obvious idiot this whole time.”

“If I knew, would I be asking?”

Grantaire’s eyes slid over to search Enjolras’s, looking for something other than the gentle confusion that lingered there, tempered by some other emotion that the blond man was having difficulty keeping in check. He snorted lightly. “You really don’t know, do you?” Turning his back on Enjolras, he whispered, “I’m in love with you, you fool.”

If he hadn’t turned his back, he would have seen the brief flash of surprise in Enjolras’s eyes, followed by a slow grin that briefly spread across his face before being replaced by a sterner look. “I see. And you thought the best way to demonstrate that to me was by using heroin.”

“Of course not.” Grantaire’s voice was still muffled. “I had hoped that when I stopped sulking in corners, maybe you would notice…maybe you would see…But then you didn’t, and there didn’t seem like much point in trying to pretend to be happy anymore.”

There was a long silence, and then Enjolras said, his voice low, “How could I have noticed anything? Do you know how worried I was for you that entire time? The speed and the coke and the God knows what else—I was sick with worry over what you were going to do to yourself. And you expected me to…to somehow want you when you were like that?”

Grantaire shrugged, his back still facing Enjolras. “Well it’s not as if you wanted me drunk either, so it was worth a try. Though it seems like you don’t want me anyway at all.”

“For Christ’s sake, Grantaire,” sighed Enjolras, exasperated. “I want you when you’re happy, and I want you when you’re sober. You just never manage to be both at once.”

Rolling over so quickly that he almost managed to pull out his IV, Grantaire stared at Enjolras. “Do you mean it?” he breathed, hardly daring to believe it, his eyes wide.

To Grantaire’s shock and delight, Enjolras blushed ever so slightly. “Yes,” he said, small smile hovering on his lips. “But,” he added, holding up a hand, “I mean the other part, too. Sober, ‘Taire. I want you sober.”

There was a long pause, then Grantaire said softly, “That may take a long time for me to get there.”

“I would wait for you.” The starkness of his words underlined their sincerity.

Another pause, then Grantaire lowered his eyes. “I may never get there, you realize,” he said. “I’m an addict, Enjolras – God, how I hate that word. But it’s true.”

Enjolras leaned forward. “But you have to at least try, ‘Taire. If you were trying, honestly trying, then maybe…maybe.”

Grantaire still didn’t look at him. “I don’t know if I can,” he whispered. “I’m just…I’m so tired.”

“I think you could. And I would help you.” Enjolras’s voice was full of a savage conviction, as if he would fight anyone who dared say otherwise.

“If you wanted me to stop for you, maybe I could.” Grantaire wasn’t sure if the words were an invitation or a challenge, but his eyes met Enjolras’s and for a long moment they both just looked at each other.

“No,” said Enjolras finally, his eyes still fixed on Grantaire’s. “No, I don’t want you to stop for me.”

Grantaire dropped his eyes, feeling a flush creep across his cheeks and the telltale sting of tears in the corners of his eyes. “Oh,” he said, his voice small.

Enjolras sighed. “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice soft. “‘Taire, look at me.” Grantaire looked up, and Enjolras was looking at him with such gentleness on his face, and he reached out to tenderly cup Grantaire’s cheek. “You stupid man. I don’t want you to stop for me. I want you to quit for _you_. You’ll never be able to otherwise. Maybe for awhile, but you have to want this. It’s not enough for me to want it for you.”

They stayed this way for a few minutes, until finally Grantaire looked down and swallowed heavily. “Fine, then,” he said, his voice a little muffled. “I’ll quit for me. For myself.”

“If that’s what you want,” said Enjolras calmly, but his eyes were suspiciously bright.

Grantaire gave a half laugh, looked up at Enjolras, and, before he could stop himself, he leaned over and kissed Enjolras. It was a short kiss, but sweet, and when it ended, Enjolras leaned forward so that his forehead rested against Grantaire’s. They stayed like that for a long time, their fingers entwined on top of the covers. Then Enjolras leaned back in his chair. “You should get some sleep,” he said.

Grantaire wanted to argue, but in truth he was still exhausted and it still hurt everywhere, so he nodded wordlessly and settled back into his pillow. Their fingers were still laced together, and Grantaire looked at their joined hands before closing his eyes, a small smile playing on his lips. _I’m doing this for you, whether you want me to or not_ was his last coherent thought before he drifted off.

* * *

 

And Grantaire had, to perhaps the best of his ability, kept his promise to try to quit. He had returned to drinking, mostly, which though Enjolras disapproved of it, was certainly better than the alternative. There had been setbacks, of course, Grantaire slipping into his old habits every now and again, typically following a squabble with Enjolras, a particularly bad day at university, or something similar. Courfeyrac remembered in particular coming back to Enjolras’s one day to find Grantaire, shirtless but wearing what looked like someone else’s pants – and suspiciously not Enjolras’s either – bent over the coffee table, doing lines of coke. Enjolras had not said a single word, just grabbing a dustpan and sweeping all of the cocaine off the table and into the garbage can, ignoring Grantaire’s half-hearted protests.

Only once, at least to Courfeyrac’s knowledge, had Grantaire done heroin again. It had been a night similar to this one, a call from the café, half-carrying, half-dragging Grantaire to Joly’s to wait for him to come down, Enjolras showing up hours later after Grantaire had come down enough to take Grantaire home.

It was also on that night that they all found out that Grantaire was now living with Enjolras. Grantaire had stayed at Enjolras’s following his release from the hospital, but it had seemed a temporary arrangement, and as Grantaire needed to be looked after, no one suspected much of it. Which is not to say that no one knew what was now going on between Enjolras and Grantaire. Anyone who had been there that night in the Café Musain knew or at the very least suspected that something had changed between the two men – and the more savvy of Les Amis had known that it had been building to this point for awhile. But no one suspected that they had gone so far as to move in together.

It was Bossuet, of all people, who was the first to say something to Enjolras about it. That night, as Grantaire lay in the bedroom at Joly and Bossuet’s, and Courfeyrac, Enjolras, Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta all perched awkwardly in the living room, waiting for Grantaire to be well enough for Enjolras to move him, Joly was running through care instructions to Enjolras, and asked if he needed to stop over at Grantaire’s the next day to check on him. Enjolras had shaken his head and said, “No, he lives with me now.”

Startled looks had been exchanged, with Courfeyrac asking slowly, “When did that happen?”

“He stayed with after getting out of the hospital and just never left.” Enjolras said it simply, like it wasn’t dropping a bombshell on the group of friends, like it wasn’t one of the biggest steps that Enjolras and Grantaire could take together.

The words, “Are you sure that’s wise?” were on Courfeyrac’s lips, but Bossuet beat him to it. “Damnit, Enj, he’s not a stray puppy you can just take in.”

All eyes were instantly locked on Enjolras to see his reaction. He sighed deeply and closed his eyes for a brief moment. “I know that.”

“Do you?” It was Joly who piped up now, looking pale. “I mean, Enjolras, no one doubts your heart is in the right place, but this isn’t like helping him get over the flu. This could be a lifelong battle, and it’s not as if you can just kick him out if it goes badly. Are you sure you’re prepared for that?”

Enjolras’s eyes flashed, reminding Courfeyrac of the burning they had held that day at Café Musain. He looked at each of them in turn, his face as deadly serious as when he spoke of the need for comprehensive immigration reform or ending human trafficking. Then his eyes flickered over to the closed bedroom door behind which Grantaire lay. “Yes. I’m sure.”

And that had been the end of it.

Now, months later, Courfeyrac could not help but remember that night as the hours stretched onward. Joly and Bossuet (and Musichetta, bless her, who really wasn’t a part of this but was gracious enough to have let this happen more than once at her place) were kind enough to sit up with him as he waited for Grantaire to finish the puking, the sweating shakes, the calling out for Enjolras. Several hours had passed, and Musichetta had retired, though Bossuet and Joly had, mercifully, stayed with Courfeyrac, though Bossuet had long ago dozed off, leaning against Joly.

All of a sudden, a shout came from the hallway, breaking through their silent vigil. “Courfeyrac!” The voice was panicked, bordering on hysteria, and accompanied a frantic pounding on the door. “Bossuet! Joly! Let me in!”

Joly got to the door first and Combeferre burst in, nearly knocking Joly over in the process. “Where is he?” Combeferre snarled at Courfeyrac. “Where the fuck is he?”

“Ferre, what—?” started Bossuet, wiping sleep from his eyes.

“It’s Enjolras. He’s in the hospital.”

Joly, Bossuet and Courfeyrac exchanged shocked looks and all three started talking at once. “What—?” “Why—?” “How the fuck—?”

Combeferre slung himself into a chair, running a hand over his face. “Someone found him on the street. He wasn’t breathing.”

“But what happened?” asked Courfeyrac.

Suddenly, Combeferre was on his feet, pointing furiously at Grantaire, who had just poked his head out of the bedroom, looking confused. “Ask him!” screamed Combeferre, spit flying from his mouth as he launched himself toward Grantaire. “Ask him!”

Bossuet managed to grab Combeferre from behind while Joly shrieked, “Ferre, no!”

Combeferre slid to the floor, and Courfeyrac was even more shocked to see tears pouring down Combeferre’s face. “Ferre, what the fuck is going on?”

His eyes still accusing, Combeferre looked at each of them in turn, ending on Grantaire, his lip curling in distaste. “According to the paramedics,” he pronounced, drawing it out viciously, “Enjolras stopped breathing from a drug overdose.”


	2. I Promise You Anything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimer: I don't own them and never will.
> 
> Any and all mistakes are mine and mine alone.
> 
> Chapter title is from "Cold Turkey" by John Lennon.

The shock could not have been more palpable. Of all the things that could have happen, not a single person in the room could have imagined it would be this. Courfeyrac instantly glanced over at Grantaire, who was swaying in the doorway of the bedroom. “‘Taire—” started Courfeyrac, but he was too late. Grantaire crashed to the floor in a faint.

Joly rushed over to Grantaire, Bossuet close behind, and for a moment Courfeyrac felt a flash of jealousy because both of them had something to take their mind off of this bombshell dropped on them all. Instead, Courfeyrac turned to Combeferre, who was still visibly seething. “What the fuck happened, Ferre? Did you go to the hospital and see him? Is he…” Courfeyrac couldn’t bring himself to finish the question.

“The doctor said he should live,” said Combeferre, biting off the words. “He looks like hell, though. I don’t know what happened. I was hoping he” – he tossed his head in the direction of Grantaire, a sneer crossing his face – “would have more answers.”

There was a pause, wherein Courfeyrac tried to figure out the best way to say what he was about to. “I know that you don’t like Grantaire,” he told Combeferre carefully, “but he’s been here all night. I spoke to Enjolras last, and he didn’t say a word about any of this. Grantaire wasn’t involved.”

Combeferre shook his head violently. “Sure, maybe he didn’t inject the drugs into Enjolras himself, Courf, but don’t tell me he’s not involved. None of this would have happened if it wasn’t for him. It’s all his fucking fault.” Courfeyrac looked over to see tears in Combeferre’s eyes. “I tried to warn him,” continued Combeferre quietly. “I tried to tell him that Grantaire was bad for him. I just never expected it to come to this. I expected it to be Grantaire somewhere on the side of road.” He paused for just a moment, then added viciously, “I wish it had been.”

Courfeyrac’s heart ached. He alone knew what warning Combeferre was referring to; he alone knew how deep Combeferre’s antagonism went, and all because he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, much like tonight. 

* * *

 

 Courfeyrac hadn’t meant to linger behind, but he had wanted a word with Combeferre about something entirely unrelated to just about anything, and happened to be out in the hall when he heard their fight. From the first word he heard, he should have just left, but he somehow couldn’t bring himself to do so. Instead, he pressed himself against the wall to make sure the last two occupants of the room couldn’t see.

“—just don’t understand what you see in him,” Combeferre was saying, his voice raised and strained. “He’s a terrible influence, Enj. I hate to have to watch you go through this every other week. Watching you go through this is unbearable.”

Enjolras’s voice was quiet but firm. “It’s not his fault, Ferre. He has a disease.”

Combeferre snorted. “That’s bullshit, Enjolras. Bullshit. And you know it. He’s an addict. He will always be an addict. And you can’t change that. Or that what this is about? Are you trying to save him? Is that it? Because some people can’t be saved.” 

There was a long pause, then Enjolras said, his voice sharp, “Maybe so, but he can. I know he can. There is so much good in him, so much potential. He just needs help.”

“Yes, he does need help!” Combeferre said loudly. “He needs a fucking rehab. But you can’t let him keep doing this to you.”

“If not me, then who else?” Enjolras asked, his voice soft and a little sad. “He needs me.” 

There was the sound of a chair scraping across the floor, as if Combeferre had suddenly stood up. “I just don’t understand how you can’t see how toxic he is for you. I mean, is he that good of a lay? I wouldn’t think a druggie would be that good, to be honest, but—”

“Don’t.” There was no softness to Enjolras’s voice now, and Courfeyrac cringed hearing the steel in his voice. This was the tone he used at protest rallies, not the tone he used with his friends, and it was a little frightening when used in such an intimate setting. “Don’t you dare. It is so much more than that.”

Combeferre’s breath hissed as if from between clenched teeth. “Has it occurred to you,” he began, his tone stark and borderline cruel, “that Grantaire has no money so to speak of? How, precisely, do you think he gets the drugs? Have you given even the smallest amount of thought to that?”

Courfeyrac had to clap a hand to his mouth to stop from exclaiming out loud. Combeferre had crossed a line, in his mind. They all knew, or at least all suspected, that Grantaire got the drugs he used with…less than honorable methods, but to throw that into Enjolras’s face…Of course Enjolras knew. Unless Courfeyrac was mistaken, Enjolras had had to pick Grantaire up from some of these—meetings—more than once. In the quietest voice he had used yet, quiet enough that Courfeyrac had to strain to hear him, Enjolras muttered, “I know precisely what he does to get them.” 

“Goddamnit, Enjolras!” exploded Combeferre, sounding angrier than Courfeyrac had ever heard him. “Don’t you fucking see? He’s going to end up killing himself one of these days. He will die from this, and then what will you do? Because guess what – it’s been six months now and he’s still not getting better. If anything, he’s getting worse. When it comes to choosing between the drugs and you, it’s pretty clear to me which one he’s chosen, time and time again. And I don’t know if it’s because you’re some kind of fucking masochist or what, but you put yourself through this over and over and I…” His voice broke. “I can’t stand seeing it. Seeing you go through this. Again.”

Silence filled the room, then Enjolras said softly, “I love him, Ferre. And he needs me.”

The silence stretched into minutes, and Courfeyrac could only imagine the two men staring at each other, neither side backing down. Finally, Combeferre said flatly, “Fine. Whatever. I’ll see you next week.”

And Courfeyrac had to quickly scurry downstairs so that neither would notice he had stayed. He hid in a corner and watched as Combeferre stormed out. It was a long time before Enjolras left, and when he did, his eyes looked suspiciously wet.

Courfeyrac had ordered himself another beer, needing time to digest what he had just overheard. Combeferre’s disapproval was hardly surprising, at least to anyone who had paid any attention whatsoever to the group of friends. He had never been fond of Grantaire, had actually suggested at one point, during one of Grantaire’s bad times, that Grantaire be kicked out of their group. But Courfeyrac saw another side to it. Enjolras lived and died by his causes, whether it was a vegan campaign or anti-war protesting, or last month’s foray into protesting human trafficking. And in some way, Enjolras had made Grantaire one of his causes. Which meant that nothing any of them said was going to talk Enjolras out of it. It also meant that Enjolras would give himself over to it whole-heartedly, as he always did, and so Courfeyrac could see Combeferre’s trepidation. Enjolras never did anything halfway, and if Grantaire truly could not be fixed…where did that leave Enjolras?

* * *

 

Evidently, it left Enjolras half dead in a hospital room.

Grantaire had wanted to come, once he had come around from fainting. He had protested viciously, had almost punched Joly upon his insistence that Grantaire was not ready. In the end, though, all it took was the soft question from Courfeyrac, “Do you want Enjolras to see you like this?”, and Grantaire had visibly wilted, allowing Joly to escort him back into the bedroom. Bossuet had wanted to accompany them to the hospital, but elected to stay with Joly and Musichetta instead. And Combeferre had said in a low voice that he could not stand to see Enjolras like that again.

Which was how Courfeyrac ended up standing alone in Enjolras’s hospital room.

The silence was oppressive, even punctuated as it was by the beeping from the heart monitor. Courfeyrac felt awkward as hell. What was he supposed to do here?

After a few minutes of lingering awkwardly in the doorway, he strode across the room and dropped heavily into the hard plastic chair next to the bed. Combeferre had not been exaggerating about how awful Enjolras looked. His hair was matted to his head with sweat, and his skin was sickly pale. He was ventilated, with two different IVs and a variety of wires attached to him. The worst part was that he truly looked like he was on death’s door. Courfeyrac did not think he had ever seen Enjolras this still, this lifeless. He felt like he had been punched in the gut.

Enjolras was not supposed to be here like this. Enjolras was the strong one of the group, the one who was always there to lend a hand, to keep everyone on the right path. He would go out of his way to help someone, and now, when he needed help the most, there was nothing that Courfeyrac could do for him. Nothing that anyone could do for him.

This was so far beyond Courfeyrac’s area of expertise. Courfeyrac was always ready with a joke or a smile, smoothing over the times when Enjolras and Combeferre got carried away in the cause du jour. Hell, if you got Courfeyrac to sit still for long enough, he’d even listen to your problems, as evidenced in the fact that he had spent what seemed like months on end getting his ear bent by Marius over Cosette.

But this…this was the kind of place reserved for someone like Enjolras. Someone who always knew what to say. Someone who had the patience of a saint – if not a marble statue, as Grantaire accused him of being – to sit here in this uncomfortable hospital chair, waiting for news that may come in an hour, a day, who knew? Even worse, this kind of situation required someone who would know what to do if the news came back and was not good. Because what if it wasn’t good news? Combeferre hadn’t really known any details beyond the basic fact that Enjolras was most likely going to live, having been far too much in a hurry to kick Grantaire’s ass than to listen to what the doctors told him, and if Enjolras’s appearance was any indication, this may not actually all turn out with puppies and rainbows.

And that’s when it truly struck him. Enjolras may not be ok. He felt like an anvil had just landed on his chest. Even if he lived – good God, _if_ he lived – Enjolras could end up brain damaged or, Jesus, addicted to heroin himself, or any of the other billion scenarios racing through Courfeyrac’s head so quickly that he was getting nauseous.

As Courfeyrac teetered on the edge of a full-blown panic attack, the fates smiled on him, choosing that moment to send the doctor into the room. Courfeyrac leapt to his feet. “How is he?” he asked quickly.

The doctor looked over the clipboard in his hand. “All things considered, not too badly. He’s moved out of the coma into natural sleep, and I estimate that he should be awake in a few hours. Based on our initial tests, there doesn’t seem to be any sign of lasting damage. No brain damage, no irreversible damage to any major organs.” He paused and looked over the clipboard at Courfeyrac. “Your friend has been incredibly lucky.”

Courfeyrac let out a breath that sounded more like a sob, and sank back into the chair. “Thank God,” he breathed.

The doctor frowned. “There’s still a long way to go until he’ll be able to leave,” he said, gesturing to the nurse beside him. “Nurse Arenberg will need to get some information from you while we wait for your friend to wake up.” 

With that said, the doctor left, with the nurse taking over from there. Courfeyrac answered the questions to the best of his abilities, blushing slightly at some of the questions asked about Enjolras’s sexual history (which, unfortunately, he knew all too much about, given Grantaire’s…lack of discretion). Then the questions took a different turn.

“How long has your friend been on heroin?” asked the nurse in clipped tones. 

Courfeyrac sighed, wondering how to even begin to explain this. “Um…like, never. This was his first time, I guess.”

“What other drugs did he do?”

“None.”

The nurse raised her eyebrows. “So for his first experimenting with drugs, your friend chose heroin?”

With another sigh, Courfeyrac ran a tired hand over his face. “It’s not like that,” he said wearily. “He…His…his boyfriend is a junkie. Well, an ex-junkie. Well, kind of. And he sorta…relapsed, a bit, last night. And I don’t know what the fuck – pardon my French – Enjolras was thinking, but I guess it had something to do with that.”

The nurse paused, then asked slowly, “Do you think your friend was trying to kill himself?”

Courfeyrac could not help but laugh slightly, nervously. “No. Definitely not.”

“How can you be sure?” asked the nurse coolly. “You just said yourself that you don’t know what he was thinking, and it sounds like something bad was going on with his boyfriend. Your friend did inject himself with a nearly lethal amount of heroin.”

“Look, I know how this looks,” Courfeyrac said, leaning forward in his chair, “but you don’t know Enjolras. He would die for one of his causes, and I have no doubt saying that he would die for his boyfriend, but he wouldn’t kill himself. That’s the coward’s way out, and Enjolras, though many things, is not a coward.”

The nurse bit her lip and looked down at the form in front of her. “Look, per procedure, I’m supposed to list him as under 72-hour suicide alert once he wakes up, but…I believe what you said about your friend, and if you can vouch for that…I could accidentally forget to fill that section out.”

Courfeyrac let out a sigh he didn’t know he had been holding. “Please.”

With that said, the nurse took her leave after checking on a few readouts from the various machines around the room. Then it was Courfeyrac alone with Enjolras again. Now that he knew that Enjolras was going to be fine, he let himself relax for the first time in what felt like hours. It was only a few minutes later that he drifted off to sleep.

He was awakened in the rudest way possible, with a nurse pulling him to his feet and literally shoving him out of the hospital room. “What’s going on?” he asked sleepily, trying to wrap his head around the sudden flurry of activity.

“Your friend is waking up,” said one nurse as she bustled into the room.

Courfeyrac smiled and instantly pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Grantaire?” he said into his phone, the relief evident in his voice. “He’s awake.”

* * *

It had taken less than 20 minutes for Grantaire to get to the hospital, which told Courfeyrac that he had probably been sitting up waiting on this call. As such, Grantaire looked like hell when he got there, nearly skidding into Courfeyrac as he asked breathlessly, “How is he?”

“He’s fine,” started Courfeyrac, but Grantaire was too busy leaning around him, trying to peer into the room behind him, a panicked look on his face. Courfeyrac gripped Grantaire by the arms, forcing the other man to look at him. “Grantaire, he’s fine. He’s sore and in about eighteen different kinds of pain, but of course he’s trying to suffer through it _nobly_ ” – Grantaire snorted; Enjolras was a notoriously terrible invalid – “but ‘Taire, he’s going to be absolutely fine. And now, if you don’t mind, I would like to go back to my apartment and succumb to a sleep that _better fucking not_ be interrupted by any more medical emergencies, understood?”

Grantaire nodded and gave Courfeyrac a wordless hug, hoping that it would say everything that he wasn’t able to. Courfeyrac patted him on the shoulder then left, which left Grantaire with nowhere really to go besides into the hospital room. He took a deep, steadying breath, then bit the bullet, pushing the door open.

Enjolras looked as terrible as they had all said, which spoke volumes because even when sick, Enjolras looked like a Greek god. Now, though, lying in the hospital bed, he looked stunningly mortal, and it took all of Grantaire’s self-control to not start crying at that alone. Enjolras looked over at him. “Hey,” he said, his voice scratchy.

That was all it took for Grantaire to start crying.

Enjolras tried to sit up straighter in his bed, wincing as pain stabbed him all over his body. “Hey,” he said in a stronger voice, reaching out toward Gorantaire, “don’t cry, it’s alright.”

“Alright? You think this is alright?” Grantaire’s voice jumped octaves. “There’s nothing fucking alright about this, Enjolras.” 

They both knew that he was talking about more than just the events that had put Enjolras in the hospital.

Grantaire approached Enjolras’s bed tentatively, reaching out to cup the other man’s cheek, to trace the familiar features with his fingers as if trying to convince himself that this was real. Throughout the entire process, Enjolras sat still and silent, letting Grantaire do what he needed to.

After his inspection was complete, Grantaire pressed a single desperate kiss to Enjolras’s forehead, his hand wrapped in the blond locks as if he were afraid to let go. “I don’t think I need to tell you that you will never do this again,” he said, almost conversationally if not for the tears that still welled in his eyes. He dropped heavily into the chair beside Enjolras’s bed. “I mean, for fuck’s sake, Enj—" 

“I know,” said Enjolras quietly.

They sat in silence for a moment, then Grantaire asked reluctantly, “I don’t know if I even want to know the answer to this, but how did it happen?”

Enjolras closed his eyes, and recounted the story that he had previously told Courfeyrac.

* * *

 

Montparnasse was laughing with some friends at the bar when Enjolras got there. Not caring who saw him, Enjolras made his way directly to Montparnasse, halting not even a foot from him. “Did you sell the heroin to Grantaire?” he asked shortly, in lieu of a greeting.

Montparnasse’s smile became a smirk as he looked Enjolras up and down. “Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t,” he said coolly. “Doctor-patient confidentiality." 

Enjolras felt his fists clench involuntarily, and it took all his self-control not to wipe that smirk off Montparnasse’s face. “Do you have more?” asked Enjolras through clenched teeth.

“Depends on what you want it for, and how much you’re willing to pay.”

Meeting Montparnasse’s eyes without flinching, Enjolras said calmly, “I want it for myself, and I can pay plenty.”

A look of surprise flitted across Montparnasse’s face, then he burst out laughing. “You, pretty boy? You want smack? You’re fucking kidding me, right?" 

Enjolras folded his arms across his chest and looked at Montparnasse seriously. “No, I’m not kidding,” he said quietly.

Still laughing, Montparnasse reached into his pocket and flipped at little baggie at Enjolras, who caught it in midair. “Here,” chuckled Montparnasse. “It’s on the house, because this is fucking priceless.”

Enjolras gave Montparnasse a curt nod, then headed out the back door of the bar to the alley behind it. He had watched enough movies and TV shows to know what to do (or at least he hoped he did – but he quickly put that thought from his mind, knowing that it wouldn’t help at the moment). He had the supplies he needed, since his first stop this evening had not been at the bar but at the needle exchange program in one of the sketchier neighborhoods in the area.

He did not miss the irony in the fact that he had bothered taking precautions when he was about to take an illegal substance, but Enjolras never did anything halfway, and that included shooting a dime bag’s worth of heroin into his veins. After taking a seat on the curb, Enjolras prepared the heroin for injection. After he had drawn the now liquid heroin into the needle he had just removed from its sterile package, he set the loaded needle carefully on his lap and wrapped the rubber tourniquet around his bicep, flexing involuntarily against the pressure in his arm.

It didn’t take long for the veins in his arms to swell, and he located the median cubital vein in the crook of his elbow with little trouble. He hesitated for just a moment, but every time logic and reason tried to pop into his head, the only thing he could think of was Grantaire dead on the side of a road somewhere with a needle in his arm, and Enjolras knew that until he could understand what the appeal of this white powder was, he would never be able to help Grantaire beat it. 

He took a deep breath and pressed the needle into his skin. It slid into his vein smoothly. One more deep breath, and he pushed the plunger of the needle. It takes mere seconds for him to feel the effects, the rush of euphoria that takes over his mind.

For a few moments, he managed to compose the distant thought that really, this wasn’t bad. That, in fact, he could see why Grantaire did this, if this is what it felt like. He felt like he was drifting away into nothingness, where nothing mattered but the incredible dreams he was having at the moment. Then everything went black.

* * *

 

“But…why?” Grantaire whispered as Enjolras finished his story. 

Enjolras sighed and looked away. “I don’t know,’ he muttered. “I thought, maybe, if I understood the appeal, maybe I could help you deal with it better.”

“You stupid fucking idiot,” Grantaire choked out with no real venom in his shaking voice. “You could have died. You could have fucking died. Do you have any fucking clue what that feels like?”

Enjolras’s eyes met Grantaire’s unflinchingly and Grantaire, realizing what he had said, flushed. “Yes, I know exactly what it feels like,” said Enjolras softly. “It feels like your heart’s been torn out of your body. It feels like you’ve been punched repeatedly in the stomach. It feels like you want to die too, but really you would rather die instead, would rather give anything that you could, everything that you have, to trade places with the other person.” Grantaire’s head was in his hands, his shoulders shaking silently, but Enjolras kept going, ignoring the tears leaking out of his own eyes. “That’s how I’ve felt everyday for the past year, at least. Since you started the coke and speed and this whole goddamn downward spiral that you refuse to stop. When you were in the hospital…God, ‘Taire, I thought I was going to die.” 

Grantaire lifted his head to look Enjolras in the eyes. “Then you have a good idea of what I feel like right now. Only I don’t feel like I’m going to die. If…if something had happened to you, I wouldn’t have traded places with you. I would’ve joined you.”

It took a moment for Enjolras to process what Grantaire meant, and then panic crossed his face. “You don’t mean that, do you?” When Grantaire did not answer, Enjolras reached out to grip his hand. “Damnit, ‘Taire, I’m not worth that.”

“You’re worth everything,” Grantaire choked out. “You mean more to me than my life, because what would my life be without you in it?” Enjolras tried to interrupt, but Grantaire kept going. “You’re the only thing I have to live for, the only one who’s ever meant anything to me. You’re…you’re my Apollo, and I know I’m not worthy of you, but—” 

“‘Taire, stop it,” said Enjolras forcefully. “I’m not a god, Greek or otherwise. I am fallible on more levels than I can possibly describe to you, the least of which is that, inadvertent or not, I almost took myself away from you permanently tonight.”

“But none of this would have happened if it wasn’t for me!” Grantaire burst out. “This entire mess is all my fault.”

“But none of this would have happened if I didn’t love you so much and wasn’t such an idiot,” Enjolras stated flatly. “But I daresay that we’re too far gone to change either of those. The blame rests with us equally.” Grantaire closed his eyes and shook his head mutely, and Enjolras reached out to grab his hand. “‘Taire, this has to end.”

Grantaire’s eyes flew open and his mouth opened in shock, and Enjolras realized what it sounded like he had said. “No, I don’t mean us, ‘Taire,” he said quickly. “But we can’t keep living like this, with this between us, because one of us is going to end up losing the other. And I don’t want that to ever happen. We have to stop living in the past and start moving forward. Starting today.”

“How?” The word was simple, but the question was not.

Enjolras stared at the ceiling unblinkingly, his face absolutely still. Anyone else might have been concerned, but Grantaire knew that Enjolras was merely thinking, his brain processing things at a million and half miles a minute. After what seemed like an eternity, Enjolras closed his eyes and sighed deeply, then opened them to look directly at Grantaire. “First things first. We have to forgive each other. Both of us, for everything that’s happened.”

“But there’s nothing I have to forgive you for—” started Grantaire, but Enjolras shook his head forcefully.

“That needs to change, too. ‘Taire, we are – we have to be – equals in this. You cannot keep venerating me in this absurd way until you come to realize that I feel the exact same about you. And I have done things that require forgiveness, and if you were to stop for just a moment, to stop thinking of me as perfect, you’d know it to be true.”

Grantaire wanted to protest, but images were popping up in his head against his will, memories he’d tried to repress. Fights that they had had, screaming at each other across the room. The times when Enjolras had purposefully said the one thing he knew would cut the other man the deepest, a cold cruelty in those blue eyes. And smaller things, too – the bossiness, the obsessive neatness, the irritability when Grantaire wanted to snuggle in the middle of Enjolras’s studying – all the little things in a relationship that had always been sidelined by the bigger issues between them. Grantaire met Enjolras’s eyes and smiled a little sheepishly. “You’re definitely not perfect,” he informed him.

A smile flitted across Enjolras’s face. “No shit, Sherlock,” he said dryly, but then he suddenly became somber. “The next step is going to be harder. For both of us.”

Looking into the eyes of the man he loved, Grantaire said honestly, “Tell me what it is and I will do it." 

“I want you to go to rehab.”

Whatever Grantaire had expected, it hadn’t been that. “That…That seems unnecessary,” he sputtered. “I’m…I’ve been getting better on my own.”

Enjolras closed his eyes briefly. “You haven’t been. Not really. And…and I’m just not strong enough to take care of you anymore. You need help that I can’t give you, that I could never give you.”

There was a brief pause before Grantaire said wheedlingly, “I’ll start going to NA meetings. Maybe an outpatient rehab…”

“No.” Tears were beginning to well in Enjolras’s eyes and his voice was hoarse. “Because the other thing we need, ‘Taire, the hardest thing of all, is time apart from each other. We fell into this so quickly – and believe me when I say that I would not trade a second of my time with you for anything in the world – but we both need this.”

Grantaire felt like he could hardly breathe, but even he had to accept Enjolras’s logic, especially since, as per usual, the man was right. “Fine,” he said after a long moment. “I will go to rehab. Once you’re home from the hospital, I’ll go.”

“No,” whispered Enjolras again, and this time the tears were falling. “You have to go now. Today. You can’t be there when I get home from the hospital because if you are, you will never go. I will never let you go.”

Grantaire’s eyes locked on Enjolras’s. “I can’t just leave you,” he whispered.

Enjolras stared steadily back. “But you have to.”

Then without warning, Grantaire was kissing Enjolras as he had never kissed him before, pouring the brokenness, the desperation, the pain and the fear into this one kiss. Enjolras wove his fingers into Grantaire’s hair, trying to reciprocate with all the love and hope and belief that he had.

They broke apart only when they needed to resurface for air. Both men were panting, their tears mingled on each others’ cheeks. “I love you,” whispered Grantaire.

“And I love you.”

They stayed that way for just a few minutes longer, holding each other as close as possible. Then Grantaire leaned back and wiped his eyes. “I’ll call Bossuet for a ride,” he said softly, “and Joly can stay with you here.” He paused, then asked, “Will you call me when you’re out of the hospital?”

“If the rehab allows it,” said Enjolras softly. “And I will visit, I swear. As much as I can.”

Grantaire hesitated. “Maybe only as much as you should.” 

Enjolras accepted this with a short nod. “Then you understand.”

“Of course.”

They stayed there for just a few minutes longer, and finally Grantaire stood up. “I love you,” he said again, but this time it was with a ferocity that neither man knew he was capable of feeling. Then he kissed Enjolras once more and left. 

Enjolras watched Grantaire walk away, a new determined set to his shoulder, and closed his eyes. Watching him walk away was the hardest thing he had ever done. He wanted nothing more than to call after the raven-haired man, to beg him to stay, to tell him that they would be fine on their own, that he could fix and take care of this.

But the pretty lies that had spanned months had finally unraveled. And even as Enjolras allowed himself to weep quietly, he also felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off of him. Maybe, just maybe, they were actually going to be ok.

* * *

 

Grantaire opened the front door and walked out onto the porch, blinking at the brightness of the sun. Even though he had been outside many times during his stay, he could not help but feel like this was his first time stepping into the sunlight. He looked out at the world with eyes wide awake for the first time in longer than he could remember, and felt a huge grin break across his face.

There in the parking lot, leaning against his car in a way that should be illegal, for Christ’s sake, was Enjolras, looking for all the world like Apollo come down to earth. Though Grantaire and Enjolras had not been able to see each other for the first two weeks of Grantaire’s stay – those were the rules of the rehab, and neither man argued with it – Enjolras had visited regularly after that. Not every day. Not even every other day. Both men knew that they both needed this time apart to heal themselves separately so that when they came back together, they could truly be together.

For Grantaire, that meant throwing himself into rehab with as much enthusiasm as he used to throw himself into his wine. And he had done just that. He hadn’t told Enjolras everything that he had talked about in rehab, and there some things, some discoveries about himself that he didn’t think he would ever be able to tell Enjolras. But perhaps the most beautiful part happened about six weeks into the program: Grantaire began to believe in himself. It wasn’t just that he started believing that he could really truly quit the drugs and the alcohol – that was no longer even a belief for him, it had settled as a concrete fact ever since Enjolras had been in the hospital, because truly, Grantaire had no other choice – he started to believe that he meant something. That he was worth something. That he could do amazing things with his life. For the first time since he and Enjolras had started dating, he stopped questioning what the blond man saw in him, stopped questioning whether he was worthy of being loved. For Grantaire, healing meant finally believing that everything he had seen reflected in Enjolras’s eyes when looking at him were true. 

For Enjolras, healing meant finding a new cause.

It had been Combeferre, of all people, who had explained it to Enjolras. The Amis had all staged something of an intervention, having all separately come to the same conclusion and having all discussed the need to get through to Enjolras on the matter. After many starts and stops to the conversation, Combeferre finally stood up from the table. “You can’t fix him, Enjolras.”

Enjolras frowned deeply. “I’m not trying to fix him, Ferre—” he started, but Combeferre cut him off.

“That’s the thing, though, Enjolras. You will try. The next time he screws up, and I’m not saying drugs or booze or whatever, but the next time he screws up, you’re going to want to fix it. To fix him. And you. Can’t. Fix. Him.” There was a long pause before Combeferre added in undertones, “He has to be able to fix himself, Enjolras. And if all you want to do is fix him, you’ll never be able to just…love him. And that’s what Grantaire really needs from you.”

No one could have said it better than that.

So Enjolras had set off to find a new cause. Of course, being Enjolras, and being incapable of doing anything halfway, even if it was just finding a new cause, he had thrown himself headfirst into about ten different causes. Which was why the bumper of his car was now literally filled with different bumper stickers, while he wore a “Drop beats, not bombs” t-shirt under his plaid button-up. He had experimented with going vegan, but Grantaire had threatened loudly to not leave rehab if Enjolras made him eat any of “that tofu bullshit”, so Enjolras had settled for going part-time vegetarian while volunteering regularly for PETA.

He also – though he didn’t tell Grantaire about this, didn’t tell any of the group about this, not that he’s afraid of what they’ll say, but mostly because this one’s for him more so than any of them – had been volunteering with drug counseling in some of the city’s homeless shelters. He’d been quietest about this cause, but does his work there with a fierce determination and an understanding that if he can turn just one life around, it will all be worth it.

But for all the causes in the world, the rallies, the protests, the flyers, the past few months were marred by the Grantaire-shaped hole in his life. For the first time in his life, Enjolras had found something more worthy than a single cause, and upon viewing Grantaire standing on the porch, blinking into the sunlight, Enjolras’s heart felt like it was going to burst open.

They had agreed not to make too big a deal out of it, not to turn it into a scene from some sappy romantic-comedy, where they would run into each other’s arms. Grantaire had been particularly insistent about it. As his eyes met Enjolras’s in that moment, though, he couldn’t for the life of him remember why.

Enjolras stared right back, using all the self-control that he possessed to stay leaning against the car. His entire body was tense, like a bowstring pulled taut, and his eyes looked Grantaire up and down with a hunger that had waited months to be satiated.

Grantaire took a few hesitant steps towards him, then, in true Grantaire fashion, said, just loud enough for Enjolras to hear, “Fuck it.”

Then Grantaire was running towards Enjolras, who felt the biggest grin he had perhaps ever worn break out on his face. And then he was running toward Grantaire and they met somewhere in the middle in a mix of hugging and kissing and just reveling in the simple joy of _holding_ each other.

After the initial flurry of being together, Enjolras leaned back, keeping his arms wrapped around Grantaire’s waist. “I missed you,” he said simply, and leaned forward to place a gentle kiss on Grantaire’s lips. “Don’t ever go away again.”

“As you wish, Apollo,” said Grantaire teasingly, barely dancing away before Enjolras could swat him for the remark. But then Grantaire was back in his arms, returning his kiss with a slow, long one of his own. “I missed you, too.”

They stayed like that for just a moment more, than Enjolras reached down and grabbed Grantaire’s hand, half-dragging him back to the car. “I know that we’re supposed to be taking it slowly,” he said, “and believe me, I will do absolutely anything to make sure that you stay safe and healthy, but I had a thought.”

Grantaire looked at him suspiciously as he settled into the front seat of Enjolras’s car. “If this has anything to do with tofu…” he said threateningly.

Enjolras laughed, and the sound warmed Grantaire’s heart immensely, bringing a stupidly in-love grin to his face. “No, no tofu,” Enjolras assured Grantaire, his blue eyes sparkling. “No, actually, you know how I’ve been volunteering for PETA and the SPCA? Well, um…”

He trailed off, and Grantaire looked over at him, brow furrowed. “What?’ he asked, poking Enjolras in the ribs. “Tell me. If it’s not tofu, I’m sure that I’ll be fine with it.”

“Well…” said Enjolras wheedlingly. “I was thinking maybe – not today, you know, but maybe in the next few weeks, if you were up for it…maybe we could get a dog.”

“A dog,” repeated Grantaire. “You want…us…to get a dog. Together.”

Enjolras looked over at Grantaire, suddenly nervous. “I mean, it’s not a huge deal if you don’t want to,” he said quickly, his knuckles turning white from how hard he was gripping the steering wheel. “I just thought that maybe, you know, it could be the start of something new with us. Something we can both take care of.”

After a moment, Grantaire leaned over and kissed Enjolras on the cheek with as much love as he could pour into the single gesture. “I think it’s a great idea,” he said seriously.

“You mean it?” Enjolras breathed.

Grantaire smiled at him. “Of course I mean it. Look, now that I’m coming home, now that we’re together again, now that I’m clean and sober, now is the time for us to actually build a life together. A life that goes beyond you taking care of me and me just looking for my next score. We can actually _be_ together. And if that means you want to get a dog, then we get a dog.” He paused a beat, then added, with a saccharine smile, “But just so you know, I’m not cleaning up any dog shit. That’s all you.”

Again, Enjolras’s laugh echoed throughout the car, and Grantaire reached over to take his lover’s hand. “I’m driving,” Enjolras protested weakly, but made no move to tug his hand away.

“I love you, you know,” said Grantaire softly. “And I know I’ve said it before, and I didn’t want to start today off like this, but I truly am sorry.”

Enjolras did not say anything for a long moment, just squeezed Grantaire’s hand. “I know,” he said quietly. “I am too.” There was silence between them for a bit after that, but a comfortable silence. Then Enjolras asked, almost shyly, “What brought up this latest apology?” 

Biting his lip, Grantaire said, his voice suddenly hoarse, “It’s just that I think I’ve hear you laugh more in the last ten minutes than I’ve heard you laugh in the last ten months.”

Keeping his eyes on the road and the steering wheel steady in his left hand, Enjolras lifted his and Grantaire’s hand to his lips. “There will be more laughter than you and I know what to do with from now on,” he promised.

“Good.” Grantaire relaxed slightly, then smiled. “So I’m assuming you already have a dog in mind from one of your various causes.”

Enjolras grinned. “As a matter of fact, I do. She’s the cutest little basset hound who was dropped off at the SPCA a week or two ago. She’s about three-years-old, tricolored, and the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen. I’m thinking of calling her Patria.” 

And they drove off together into the future, the sound of laughter swirling around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for reading. I know it kind of dissolved into fluff at the end, but I think we can agree we all needed that.
> 
> It should be noted that any and all references to drugs, addiction, rehab, etc., are based solely on my own experience and should not constitute any kind of authority in this matter.
> 
> It should also be noted that addiction is a very difficult thing, and that relapse is incredibly common. I've left this fic where it is because I couldn't bear dragging my babies over the coals any more than I already had, but the reality is that "fixing" the problem of addiction is never as simple as portrayed here, and I do not mean on any level to somehow insinuate otherwise.
> 
> One last thing, and then I swear I'll get off my soapbox, if you or anyone you know is struggling with drug or alcohol addiction, I urge you to seek help from a professional.
> 
> That's all, folks. Thank you so kindly for reading. I'm sure I'll be back with another E/R fic soon (they're my new addiction - pun obviously intended).


End file.
